Introduction to Mortality
by lilypad234
Summary: This is based on a Ficcy Friday prompt from the Milady/Milord Livejournal Community: Jeff's father dies and Annie helps him get through the funeral, especially when he has to write a eulogy. Set Season 4, though with some liberties taken as to the nature of Jeff and Annie's relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Cold

He's been quiet all morning, and Annie's starting to get worried. Not that he's usually bubbling with enthusiasm early on a Monday – or, well, ever – but she detects in his silence something more than the usual Winger apathy or post-weekend hangover.

For starters, he barely even rolls his eyes when Britta tells the group about the "Freudian Sips" Happy Hour and Free Group Therapy Session the psychology department is hosting that night. The announcement does, however, inspire Troy and Abed to start reenacting the final therapy session from _Good Will Hunting_. Annie looks at Jeff expectantly, ready for him to immediately shut it down with a sharp "No", but it gets to the fifth "It's not your fault" before he finally offers up a tired "Guys, stop. Please."

No one else seems to notice anything amiss throughout all of this, though, so she fights the urge to pull him aside and ask if he's all right, because maybe it's all in her head, anyway. She does tend to overanalyze things, she reasons, especially since she and Jeff began…whatever this strange, tenuous _thing_ is between them. And really, even if something were bothering him, it's not like they would discuss it. They're not there yet. At least, she doesn't think they are. Not that they've discussed _that_ either...

She feels her train of thought starting to spiral in directions she doesn't care to explore on a Monday morning, so she shakes her head – as if that would dislodge all of the nagging questions lingering there – and quickly tries refocus her energy on their history assignment. She passes out copies of the outline she prepared over the weekend for their next group paper.

"So, I know the outline is long," she begins.

"Heh. If you think this is long, let me show you my –"

"Pierce!" Shirley shrieks, then mutters "Dirty old man" under her breath. She smacks him across the head with her copy of the outline. It makes a satisfying _thwack_ noise as it makes contact, and Annie secretly feels proud that she's written enough for her print out to do bodily harm.

She presses on. "But, if you recall, Professor Cornwallis' prompt of '_Write something about something that happened somewhere during the Cold War'_ is pretty vague. So I just thought it would be good to be thorough."

She glances at Jeff, bracing for a lecture on passable assignments, a sarcastic remark about her lack of a weekend social life, or even an exasperated "Really, Annie?". But instead there's nothing. Alarm bells go off in her head, but they're quickly drowned out by everyone else's protestations. She tries to interject and continue with section assignments and deadlines, but then all hell breaks loose and everyone is shouting over each other, complaints and arguments ebbing and flowing all at once. She's lost them, and she knows it.

_"I lived through the Cold War. I shouldn't have to WRITE about it -"_

_"Your outline doesn't even talk about how right here in the United States of America, Paul McCartney abused his governmental power and led a witchhunt against innocent citizens because he was afraid of communism -"_

_"I think you mean Joseph McCarthy."_

_"Uh, I'm pretty sure I know what I'm talking about here, Shirley."_

_"And I'm pretty sure you don't."_

_"Hey, if you think the outline is long, let me show you my –"_

_"Pierce, you already made that joke, and it didn't go over well with audiences the first time around."_

_"Do I have to read this? It's a billion pages long and the font is so tiny. It's like half the size I use for my papers. Also, why was the Cold War so cold? Is it because they fought it near the North Pole? Or did they only fight during the winter, and have the rest of the year off? Is that why it took so long?"_

_"Hey, if you think the Cold War was long –"_

"ENOUGH!"

Annie jumps and the rest of the group is startled into silence at Jeff's outburst.

He slams his phone down on the table, making everyone jump again. "Pierce, you don't remember what you ate for breakfast or how you got here today, so I doubt you remember much of your Cold War experience. Troy, it's size 12 font, which is pretty standard past the fifth grade, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but no, that is not why the Cold War was cold. And Britta, for the love of God, it is Joseph McCarthy, because Paul McCartney is a former Beatle and you are the worst." he pauses and sighs. "Now can we please just figure out what section everyone is writing and be done with it? I only have one class today, and I'd like to go home immediately after, before this day gets any worse."

"Gooooood morning and happy Mon-dean!" As if on cue, the dean strides in to the study room, wearing what can only be a woman's nurse Halloween costume.

Jeff buries his face in his hands. "Of course."

"Oh, Jeffrey – Thank goodness you're here today. I'm so glad!"

"That makes one of us," he mumbles into his palms.

"I thought I wouldn't be seeing you for awhile-"

"That is the dream—"

"-Not after what happened this weekend-"

"Excuse me - what?" Jeff drops his hands to the table.

"Oh it's probably just me overreacting as usual, but it's just after your late night hospital trip this weekend, my mind just went to some really dark places," the Dean prattles on.

The group collectively gasps, then stares at Jeff.

Annie feels her heart jump into her throat, and her pulse quicken. He had seemed fine on Friday…She thinks back on how she spent her weekend fixated on why he hadn't called, and she suddenly feels stupid and childish.

"Okay, for future reference, we are now adding 'following me out of my apartment building at 3AM' to the list of things you are not allowed to do, since that is, somehow, the only logical way you could possibly know about any of this."

"How I know about this doesn't matter, Jeffrey," the dean replies coolly, though he looks properly chastised. "What matters is that you are here and seem to be doing well, all things considered. But if you start to feel weak and need anyone to check your vital signs during the course of the day, my office is always available for you to rest, lie down, take off your shirt –"

"DEAN!"

"And you know where to find me," he adds hastily, before rushing out of the room.

"Okay, please stop looking at me like that," Jeff insists after the dean departs. "Seriously."

"Jeffrey, are you okay? This sounds serious," Shirley coos, concern evident on her face.

"Yeah, you don't go to the hospital for no reason," Troy says. "I tried once, to get out of a biology test, but they sent me home. So if they let you stay, then it must be pretty bad."

"It's fine. It's nothing. Can we please divide up the assignment and get to class?"

Annie wants to say something, somehow voice her concern and reassure Jeff that he can tell her – tell _the group_ – if something is wrong. But her mouth is suddenly dry and her tongue feels heavy, and the only words she can form are, "Jeff, maybe you can take the introduction and sections 1 and 2. I can write sections 3 through 6. Who can take 6 through 8? Britta? It's the section on McCarthyism…"

Jeff shoots a grateful glance in her direction, and for a split second she feels proud of herself for actually saying the right thing. But the moment is short-lived.

"I'm not writing anything until Jeff tells us what's going on," Britta says pointedly, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "As a certified licensed psych major, I know for a fact that your psyche and physical health are related. So maybe if you just share with the group what you're feeling physically, you will also feel better psyche-ic-ologic-ically speaking."

"No."

"Yeah, Britta. A man's health is private," Pierce adds.

"Thank you," Jeff responds, surprised that he has a defender.

"And it's probably something embarrassing like herpes."

"It's not herpes, Pierce."

"Chlamydia?"

"Not that either."

"Ball cancer?"

"Can you drop it?"

"So it is ball cancer."

"Oh my God, do you have cancer?" Britta shrieks. "Are you dying? Do you want to talk about it? I'm here for you."

"No!"

"Told you, it's herpes."

"It's not – Look," Jeff sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It is not a big deal, but since everyone here has an unhealthy level of attachment to everyone else's personal lives – My father had a heart attack. That is why I was at the hospital. Okay? I'm fine. I don't have herpes, Chlamydia, or any form of testicular cancer. So if we could please just divide up the paper and –"

The end of his sentence is cut off by the rest of the group erupting into questions and advice and sympathetic remarks. Annie offers up a timid, "I'm so sorry…", but it gets lost in the clamor of everyone else's words.

_"—Know a Mexican guy who will sell you heart medication for cheap. Might be for dogs, though. Actually, it might be for heartworm -"_

_"—Light a prayer candle at mass on Sunday and pray for a full recovery."_

_" – Just like that movie where –"_

_"How does your heart attack you? Does it break off from the rest of your body? Can it do that?!"_

_"—Silver lining, because it's the perfect time for you to really reconcile with your father. You can heal your relationship while he heals his heart."_

"Okay. That's IT!" Jeff finally yells, silencing everyone. "I don't need your Mexican heartworm pills, or your prayers, or your movie analogies. And now would be a really crappy time to work on my relationship with my father, considering the fact that he's dead, so I'm pretty sure that means our relationship has peaked."

Annie's heart drops down to her toes. "Jeff…"

He casts a warning glare at her. "Stop. Do not look at me like you just saw Bambi's mother get shot. Just…don't." He shifts his gaze around the table. "Seriously. Every single one of you, stop. All I wanted was to get through this morning without having to talk about any of this. Since that clearly hasn't happened, the very least you could all do is stop overreacting, let it go, and let me get through the rest of this day in peace."

With that, he grabs his notebook, phone, and jacket, before stalking out of the room, leaving a wide-eyed, slack-jawed, stunned-silent study group in his wake.


	2. Lines

Notes:

1. **Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to Community, its characters, storylines, etc.

2. **Thank you** to everyone for your feedback on the first chapter! It really means a lot to me that you guys took the time to leave a review, or follow the story! Sorry this chapter has taken so long to get going. I posted the other one right before I went back to grad school, and needless to say, the past month has been a vortex of lots of stress and very little time. I appreciate your patience.

3. Sorry in advance that this chapter isn't super action-packed. It's more along the lines of inner monologues, which I know can be boring, but I thought was important to set up some stuff for the rest of the story. Bear with me, I beg of you!

Thanks again, and here's Chapter 2!

-Lily

**Chapter 2: Lines**

She waits for him outside of class. She feels weird doing it – for one thing, he's usually always the first to leave, and for another, she knows it's probably treading dangerously close to one of the weird, unspoken lines between them. But she wants -no _needs - _to make sure that he's holding up okay, and so she leans awkwardly against a locker and fidgets nervously with her backpack straps while he puts on his jacket and takes his phone off silent.

He tries to brush past her as soon as he sees her lurking near the doorway, but she chases after him down the hall, her feet scurrying to keep up with his long, determined strides.

"Jeff!"

He keeps walking, head down, phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen.

"Jeff, I need to talk to you."

He picks up his pace.

"Jeff, wait. Please. It's important!"

He stops and turns to look at her. "Introduction, sections 1 and 2. 12 point font. Got it. I promise."

"You know that's not what I want to talk to you about," she hisses, finally catching up to where he's standing. She lowers her voice to a whisper. "And, I'm a little hurt that you really think I would be on your case about schoolwork when you're going through this….very…difficult…thing…" She trails off lamely, unsure of the etiquette for describing the situation.

"Oh, well I'm sorry _you're _feeling hurt right now."

Her cheeks flush as she inwardly winces at her faux pas. "I-I'm sorry. That was inconsiderate."

He sighs. He hates the sound of pity in her voice. "Annie, like I said before, please just don't. This is not a big deal. It's fine. I'm fine."

"I know you're fine," she says quickly – too quickly for his liking. "But if you ever decide that you're…not fine…I just want you to know that I'm here for you. I…care about you."

The words feel awkward and clunky as they fall off her tongue. Somehow, in all of their conversations, she realizes they've never really talked about anything. And now these words of reassurance that should be so easy for friends to say to each other sound foreign and strange. She attempts to read his face for any hint of what he's really thinking or feeling, but there's nothing there. She tries not to let that bother her.

She waits for him to respond, but he only turns to start walking again, so she blurts out more words, hoping that he'll stop, and just…say anything. "And um, I'm really sorry. I know it's a big loss and I can't imagine what you must be feeling, and –"

He scoffs. "Annie, I appreciate the sentiment. But like I said, it's fine. I'd hardly call it a loss."

She flinches. "Jeff, don't say that. I know you don't mean it -"

"Oh, but I do. Because it's the truth. You can't lose something you never really had. Now at least I can have the satisfaction of knowing that the reason I'll never hear from him is because he's dead, and not because he's a giant jackass."

She opens her mouth to interject, but he continues. "Look, I know that everyone probably expects me to have some big emotional breakdown, but I operate in a world based on reality and not inane psychological theories, religion, or television clichés. And the reality is that I'm fine. And going forward, I'd really appreciate it if you would just let me be fine and not confront me in the middle of the hallway about how you think I should be feeling."

He storms out to the parking lot, and she lets out a shaky breath she didn't even know she'd been holding. She feels tears welling up in the corner of her eyes and she brushes them away, wishing she had just stayed on her side of the line.

_**xxxxxxxxxxx**_

He starts to feel bad on the drive home. Maybe he was too harsh on her. No, he _definitely_ was too harsh on her. She was only trying to help. At least he thinks she was.

But then again, he rationalizes, what did she actually think she would accomplish by playing Feelings Police? Even if he did want to talk about everything – which, for the record, he doesn't – he wouldn't just start to pour his heart out while standing casually next to Starburns' old locker. And he most certainly would not have picked Annie, of all people, as the one to open up to.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh at the image. _"Why, yes, Annie, I was just thinking that I would love to ruin our…whatever this is…by burdening you with my deep, dark, fucked up feelings. You'll probably never talk to me again after, but gosh it would be cathartic. Can we start with the story about how I laughed uncontrollably at the hospital administrator when he told me my dad listed me as the next of kin? I'd really like to explore that."_

He shakes his head. No, he'd done the right thing, harsh as it was. Annie may have meant well – at the end of the day, she always _means_ well – but really, he can think of no good reason why she should be made privy to anything going on in his head right now. They're not her problems or her issues to deal with, and honestly, what could she even do about any of them that he couldn't figure out on his own?

"Nothing," he answers his own question out loud, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. He pauses, letting his thoughts sink in.

"She's better off not having to listen to all the details she probably doesn't actually care about. If anything, she should be thanking me for sparing her," he adds emphatically, as if speaking aloud would solidify the truth of his statements.

He also adds – silently this time – that, at the end of the day, _he _will be better off keeping her in the dark, as well. She is, after all, one of the few uncomplicated parts of his life. _Ambiguous_? Sure. He doesn't really know what they are or where it's going, exactly. _Confusing_? Maybe, since he _also_ doesn't really know where he _wants_ it to go, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that, despite all of that, somehow it's easy. Over the course of the past few months, they've carved out rules and boundaries between them, some openly agreed upon and others more implicitly so. But either way, they've all been adhered to, and there haven't be any problems. If he were to start now with the talking and the feelings and the emotional baggage, who the hell knows what would happen? And does he really want to risk something so easy for two minutes of delving into his psyche and probably coming up empty, anyway?

No, he decides as he pulls into his parking spot, he doesn't want to risk it. For his sake and for hers. Things get messy when they're not compartmentalized, so it's just better to keep them neat and organized and…separate. It's been working so far, and everybody wins that way.

Happy with his conclusion, he throws his car in park and heads inside, already feeling better and more clearheaded than he has in days. All he needed was some time alone to think, without six others chiming in. Sometimes, he tells himself, he gets dragged down into relying on the group for everything, when really he's had the answers all along. Sometimes, he just needs to remember that he's better off on his own. He smiles, proud of his newly remembered self-sufficiency.

His phone buzzes as he's unlocking his apartment door. He checks it quickly – a text from Annie, typed out in complete sentences and perfect grammar, as usual.

_I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to pry. If you need to talk, though, I'm always here to listen._

He smirks to himself, shuts off the screen, and tosses the phone aside on the kitchen counter as his front door slams behind him. He fixes himself a scotch, then sits on his couch, drinking slowly and reveling in the silence. Jeff Winger doesn't need to talk; he just needs space.


End file.
